Fiction: Snow


They were having an after-dinner cordial, watching the snow come down, when Lance told them how the woman had confronted him.

“And where did this happen?” his mother asked.

“In downtown Providence not far from the Biltmore. Out of the blue she was standing in front of me, said I looked exactly like her pastor in Auburn. ‘I’d swear he was your father. Is he?’ When I said, ‘No,’ she seemed hardly convinced. ‘You’re sure?’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’ She actually looked offended when I told her Hartridge. ‘I suppose the world’s full of look alikes,’ I said. ‘But you’re the spit and image of him,’ she said. She stared so hard at me she made me feel accused of lying. Her insistence irritated.” […]

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H.E. Francis is author of two novels and four collections of stories, many reprinted in anthologies, notably the O. Henry, Best American, and Pushcart Prize volumes. He lives in Huntsville and Madrid and translates distinguished Argentine literature. His collections have won the Iowa school of Letters Award and other awards.